Champagne: The Farewell

by Janet Hubbard

  “What are you implying? That Marc and Hans had a deal conjured up before Hans ever showed up? That did occur to me.”

  “How easy for them now that Léa’s out of the way. I worry about Chloé’s safety once she’s running the company.”

  “Is that a fact?” His eyes widened. “Who knows? She might be able to turn things around. There were divided loyalties, with Marc pulling employees toward Hans and Bernard Martin trying to bring in Baptiste Dupuis. For a price, I’m sure.”

  “God, Ted. We’re all so cynical.” She told him her suspicions toward Martin, and he said he wasn’t surprised.

  “Léa was going to tell me something the day after the wedding,” he said. “About why she was selling the company. I tried to get her to tell me, but she refused. I insisted on a hint, and she said, ‘skeletons in the closet,’ and ran off.”

  They sat quietly for a moment. “It could be the key, but it’s much too vague,” said Max.

  Ted put his hand up to his face. “I have to get more pain medication.”

  “I have to go.” She helped him into bed. The nurse entered, and Max leaned over and bestowed a quick kiss on Ted’s forehead and ran out of the room. She didn’t want to be late to Hans’ interrogation. When she got back to her room she would write down Hans as her number one suspect, then create a chart and try to connect some more dots.

  She worried, though, that she was getting hopelessly bogged down in emotional minutiae that had nothing to do with the case. A potential problem when inhabiting a suspect’s character.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Olivier drove to the Palais de Justice in Reims after leaving Girard. The wall of legal books, floor to ceiling windows, the Oriental rug covering the vast floor created a formal appearance, perhaps intimidating for some. To Olivier the atmosphere was more conducive to seeking answers than the austerity of the police station. He was relieved that the police and gendarme garde à vue, or questioning, was over and that he could formally open the instruction.

  Claude Reynard, to whom the police had reported every few hours, called to say that based on the evidence sent to him by Commisaire Girard, Monsieur Ted Clay was the number one suspect and should be arrested as soon as possible. It might as well be Clay as any other, Olivier thought, though for the moment he was far more interested in Hans Keller.

  He glanced up and was surprised to see Max Maguire entering the room, wearing a knee-length skirt, a jacket with a Chanel cut, and cowboy boots. Her short platinum hair formed a cap on her head, and her lips were the color of his favorite rose, the “Souvenir de la Malmaison,” introduced in 1844 after the death of Empress Josephine as a nod to her famous château and gardens. He was glad to see her.

  “Bonjour,” she said. “I hope I’m not late. I stopped in on Ted, who has been diagnosed with a broken jaw, which seems to be causing a respiratory problem.” She stopped and looked around, “Wow, this room is impressive. You should see where I do my interrogations. Think oppressive gray.”

  He smiled. “The police stations here aren’t much better. I wasn’t sure if you were planning to come or not.”

  Olivier buzzed in an assistant who arrived with a tray of coffee and placed it on his desk. “May we have a chair for mademoiselle?” he asked. The young man nodded and left the room. The door opened again and Abdel stepped in quietly, carrying a laptop under his arm. The secretary returned with a chair for Max.

  “May I give you a quick rundown on Ted?” she asked. Olivier observed that she included Abdel.

  “We have five minutes, but I also want you to know that I just learned that he is going to be arrested as soon as he is released.”

  She leaned forward, “On what basis?”

  Olivier explained that Ted’s alibi was contradicted by Geneviève Durand, who said that he hadn’t lingered in her room at the inn and that she had, in fact, asked him to go straight away to Léa. His explosion over a verbal taunt had shown that he was quickly aroused to anger. And a handwritten will was found in Léa’s possessions that listed him as an heir to her fortune. It’s being checked for forgery,” he added.

  “Were his fingerprints on the bottle?”

  “I should get that report today. I think the arrest is premature, but Commissaire Girard and Captain Canon are caught in a whirlwind of publicity, and are feeling great pressure. It’s how mistakes happen.”

  “I have more information that isn’t in Ted’s favor,” Max said, “But I would still wager everything I have that he didn’t do it. He borrowed fifty-thousand euros from Léa last year and hasn’t paid it back.”

  Was this offering up of new information Max’s way of conceding that it was indeed possible that her friend Ted had committed a murder, Olivier wondered. It was about time.

  “But I also want to let you know why I think Hans Keller lured him into a fight.” She explained what Ted had learned about Hans’ past and what Ted had written in his blog.

  Olivier’s assistant entered, followed by Keller—dressed in the suit he had worn to the wedding, and sporting a sling. Hans assessed the seating arrangement and sat in a chair across from Olivier. He looked over at Max, then back at Olivier. “Is this woman allowed to be here? After all, she assaulted me last night and I’m still trying to have her arrested.”

  Olivier responded, “She isn’t your concern.”

  It was obvious that Hans was desperate to be in control. “You have the report the police gave you about my movements during the time of the wedding and after, most of which is quite boring. What else do you want?”

  “To hear about the meeting you had with Madame de Saint-Pern at seven prior to the dinner at the Marceau home the night before the wedding.”

  “Léa picked me up at the inn and we drove to her château, where she opened a bottle of L’Etoile, I think a ‘96. We discussed the details of me purchasing her company for X amount of euros. And this brings up an important matter that is of great concern to certain of your superiors.” He was looking at Olivier. “You saw me with a small leather bag when I disembarked from the plane. It contained two-hundred-thousand Euros.”

  “Where is it?”

  “No idea. I asked Léa if I could leave it in the trunk of her car until after the wedding and she said yes, having no idea what it contained. I ran to get it from the car when I was informed of her death, and the car had been confiscated by the police. They assured me that it wasn’t there.”

  “Did you tell anyone about it?”

  “Obviously my father knew.”

  “It’s illegal to transport such a large sum of cash across borders. What was it for?”

  “It came with the approval of a French minister, Monsieur Chaumont. You might want to be careful.”

  Olivier flashed back to the brief and strange conversation with Philippe Douvier. He thought if there was a cache of money, Douvier was involved, otherwise Hans would be too frightened of being arrested to bring it up. Or to transport it.

  “That sounds like a threat, which will be duly noted. Anyone else?”

  Hans grew pensive. “I suspect Geneviève Durand and her son of taking it. I have asked him, but he denies any knowledge.”

  Olivier thought Hans deserved to lose it, but he also didn’t think Geneviève deserved to keep it, “I will look into it, but the death of Léa de Saint-Pern takes precedence now. You argued with her.”

  “I was upset the day we flew, but, trust me, it was easier for me to work with her alive than dead. She committed again the night before the wedding to signing the contract on Monday, when her lawyers would be present. She was quite emotional about it.”

  “You mean she was crying?”

  “That’s exactly what I meant. I almost felt sorry for her.”

  That put a different spin on Léa’s decision to sell de Saint-Pern. Jacques had perhaps been prescient when he mentioned
to Olivier that something was going on that Léa wasn’t sharing. Had she been acting out of fear? They might never know.

  “But you didn’t let up. Several people said you were harassing her at the wedding reception. You took a bottle of champagne down to the bench where she sat waiting for Monsieur Clay and demanded an answer.”

  “That direct accusation method doesn’t work with me, Monsieur Chaumont.”

  Olivier glanced at Max, who was listening intently. She had brought him the information that he was about to use, he realized. “What if the victim knew the story of your grandfather and grandmother who were living in Champagne in the 1940s? What if she knew that your grandfather went through a trial and was thrown out of France for economic collaboration with the enemy, and what if she threw that information in your face?”

  Hans’ lips were a thin line, but he didn’t capitulate. “What if, what if…” he said.

  “She had learned that information recently from Monsieur Clay, who had also unearthed the information that the Weinführer for this commune, Herr Bruckner, confiscated Charles de Saint-Pern’s grandfather’s château and turned it into German headquarters, all with the help of your grandfather.”

  “This is all fucking nonsense!”

  “And what if our victim said to you that night that she would never sell to a man whose ancestor had been a traitor to France?”

  Hans’ face had gone white, and he simply stared.

  “There was a witness to your conversation with Madame de Saint-Pern.”

  “Who?”

  “That is private information. There were a surprising number of people wandering around the Marceau lawn that night.” Olivier had never bluffed to such an extreme, but he could tell that Hans was unnerved. “We’ve confiscated the shoes you wore at the wedding, monsieur. And we’ll get your DNA before you leave. You’ve been fingerprinted, correct?”

  Hans nodded, numbly.

  “You won’t be able to leave this valley without permission. All of this will be explained by my assistant.”

  “But my arm.” He turned and glared at Max.

  “It’s a simple sprain and should be fine within a couple of days. I have the doctor’s report here.”

  The office assistant arrived to escort Hans out. Olivier explained to Max and Abdel about the secret land for sale just out of the Champagne commune, and his suspicion that if there was a bag of cash it was going toward a land deal. He wasn’t sure who was involved, though. Abdel suggested that he check a few bank balances and Olivier approved. “But don’t become distracted by it,” he cautioned him. “We have to stay focused on the murder.”

  The assistant returned and told Olivier that Madame Marceau had called and said it was urgent that she speak to Olivier before her husband was interrogated. “I told her to be here in half an hour.”

  “D’accord.” Olivier spoke to Max, who had gone to the window to look out onto the gardens. “Your information about Han’s past was helpful, as you can see.”

  “But the way you used it was brilliant. I was thinking about Léa crying when Hans was talking. Ted said something interesting yesterday. Léa told him that the sale had to do with skeletons in the closet, but refused to reveal what they were. Thanks, by the way, for not letting him get me on the assault charge.”

  “It was dangerous, what you and Marc did.”

  “I felt that I had no choice.”

  “But still, Hans is quite a bit taller, and strong.”

  “That’s the point of jiu-jitsu. The little guy has a chance.”

  “Perhaps the little guy begins to believe he has a chance.”

  She looked tired. “Whatever.”

  “What does that mean, ‘whatever’?”

  “It means I’m not willing to argue. I don’t think I should sit in on your conversation with Marie-Christine. I think I’ll return to the house. Thanks for allowing me to be here.”

  She was already out of her seat and heading to the door.

  “Max.”

  She turned, only her eyes displaying surprise at the sound of her name.

  “May I pick you up this evening and go somewhere to discuss the case? We might need to start searching for those skeletons.”

  She seemed hesitant. Surprised, perhaps? She smiled, and it was lovely to see. “Sure.”

  As she was leaving, Marie-Christine appeared and spoke briefly to Max. She was today the quintessential haute bourgeoisie Frenchwoman—designer suit, coiffed hair, perfect earrings, erect posture, and yes, there was the Hermes scarf, the security blanket for these women. Olivier introduced Abdel, who walked over and shook hands with her and returned to his laptop. She sat across the desk from him, hands in her lap.

  Olivier said, “Needless to say, you’re not a suspect, but I’m hoping you can provide some information that might move the investigation forward.”

  “Is there anything new?”

  “We think we have the murder weapon.”

  “The stone rabbit in the yard?”

  “No, a full bottle of champagne.”

  She frowned. “How horrible for the industry.”

  Olivier knew that what she meant was “how horrible for the reputation of her beloved Champagne,” but he could tell after a swift glance at Abdel that he had found the comment obnoxious.

  “What I meant,” she said, “is that these bottles represent gaiety and celebration, and are associated with the launching of great ships, polo, and illustrious people. They’ve never been associated with death. Or homicide.” Her face seemed to splinter, and she reached into her Gucci handbag and brought out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “Please forgive me. Let’s go on.”

  “Where were you between the hours of midnight and two?”

  “Many of the older guests were leaving and I was seeing them off. I was in and out of the kitchen with Mimi, helping with clean-up.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual about Léa that night?”

  “No, she seemed the same, perhaps a bit more tired. As always she had men trailing behind her everywhere she went. The German, Monsieur Keller, the Anglo-Saxon, Monsieur Clay, Dupuis, all of them wanting something from her.”

  “I witnessed the conversation she had with you about Monsieur Clay and the baby.”

  “Oh, that. Don’t forget the invitation she issued to Monsieur Keller on my daughter’s wedding day. It was incredibly inconsiderate, and typical of Léa, to create chaos when the attention is on someone else. If she hadn’t invited these two…foreigners…she might still be alive. I understand that Monsieur Clay is going to be arrested?”

  Olivier nodded.

  “Léa was going through a crisis about turning forty. I think she was panicked at the idea of aging, as most beautiful women do, and she thought having a baby would ward off the inevitable. In reality it does the opposite.”

  Olivier wanted to steer the conversation back to her relationship with Léa. “She seemed to exercise a lot of control over your family.”

  “She always has over Chloé. She was terribly jealous that I had a child and we quarreled occasionally over the way she treated Chloé as a best friend.”

  “She gave the couple an apartment in Paris?”

  “I didn’t object to that so much, but I hated her bringing Chloé and Marc into her company. Jacques and I had deliberately not offered them jobs with us until they had a year to really think about what they wanted. They haven’t known each other very long, as you know.”

  “And what about Jacques?”

  Her hands were clenched.

  “What about my husband?”

  “He borrowed money from Léa?”

  “Against my wishes. “

  “But it didn’t cause a rift.”

  “No. Tension, perhaps. You know, Olivier, Jacques was
always in love with Léa. He has confessed to me that he had an affair with her after Charles died. I told him I knew.” She stopped this time to mop away the tears running down her cheeks. “I bring this up because I’m terrified that our family secrets will be leaked to the press, and I’m asking you to prevent that from happening.”

  Was she also subtly placing blame on Jacques? Olivier wondered.

  “Can you imagine how it feels, to know that the man you’ve loved your entire life is in love with your sister?”

  Olivier knew well how it felt to have a spouse stray, and empathized.

  Marie-Christine cried harder. “But at this moment I would happily give up everything I have to see her again.”

  Abdel had stopped typing, and sat with his eyes downcast.

  Olivier moved to put a hand on her shoulder, and she reached up and patted it. It’s the secrets, he thought, that cause our despair.

  In a few moments she had composed herself. She sat erect, again. “I’m terrified that Jacques killed my sister.”

  “You can’t offer an alibi?”

  “No, I can’t. Jacques has his own room. He came into the kitchen and removed a chilled bottle of champagne from the refrigerator, and jammed it into an ice bucket a little after midnight. I can’t stop thinking about the murder weapon being a bottle of champagne.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  “It didn’t occur to me to ask until now. Lots of people were coming in and out, and going into the refrigerator.”

  “It just now occurred to you that he might have killed Léa?”

  “Yes. I’ll ask him about the ice bucket and champagne when I return to the house.”

  The brutality involved in the murder of her sister was so foreign to Marie-Christine, Olivier thought, that she could blithely and ignorantly peg her husband, turning him in as though he had stolen a lawnmower. What was unsettling for him was the opposite: the suspicion that Jacques had killed his sister-in-law.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chloé was waiting when Max arrived back at the house. “How was my mother during the interrogation?” she asked. “I thought she was over-the-top stressed out when she left.” Max smiled at her friend’s American jargon.